


Dark Sun's Rising

by Falcolmreynolds



Series: Peregrine Reynolds' Private Collection of Works from the Library of Jurgen Leitner [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Book - Freeform, Canon-Typical Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Eye Trauma, Gen, Horror, Leitner, Leitner book, POV Outsider, The Dark, This is a Leitner, beats me lol, it belongs to a character in a different fic, listen. it's a lietner., one very unfortunate family, they all die., what did you do to get targeted this hard by the Dark?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-24 19:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22323451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falcolmreynolds/pseuds/Falcolmreynolds
Summary: From the Library of Jurgen Leitner.The book is small and slim, bound in black suede with the title embossed in black on both the cover and the spine. Additionally, the cover sports a single, unfilled black circle pressed into the suede beneath the title. This book was found and utilized by an American branch of the People's Church of the Divine Host, and was then recovered from them by Birch Halloway, an archival assistant working at the Usher Foundation in Albany, New York, shortly before they attempted to murder her.The book contains several references and instances of appearance of an entity previously thought to be the Still and Lightless Beast, but known later to actually be a lesser creature called the Soot-Coated Horror.Utilizing the book sometimes causes thick, black water to pour from the pages. The book itself remains dry during this process.
Series: Peregrine Reynolds' Private Collection of Works from the Library of Jurgen Leitner [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611286
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. A Warm Fire

Beiran went to work in the morning. He came home in the evening. In the autumn-time, it was customary for him to stoke a fire as night fell, to keep the house warm, and he was not wealthy enough to have a servant at his home in the later hours to do it for him, despite his upbringing and his family’s standing.

This night, he built a warm fire from split wood and crumpled newspaper, and sat near it as the evening wore on. Tonight, the fire seemed almost to shrink away from the world, or struggle against it as it tried to burn; it took him several tries to get it to light properly, and he cursed the wasted matches as he tossed them into the pile of logs. When it finally did burn, the flames were small, flickering desperately at the edges of the wood. They threw no light beyond a small circle about his hearth, though he did not notice. The flames struggled. They could not grow. They only waned.

Eventually, the fire burned low, and he knew he didn’t have to worry about it setting any of his possessions alight, so he went to bed.

* * *

Ruby Barker was a good wife. She knew this. Her husband knew this. Everyone had known it once, but nobody but she and Sebastian believed it anymore.

She did not go to the parent meetings for the schools anymore. When other parents saw her at church they nodded their respect but stayed away from her. They did not want to go near her. Nobody wanted to go near her. She was tainted by what had happened to Morgan. Death is not contagious, but it might have been, for the way others treated Ruby.

Ruby Barker was a good wife. She was kind to her husband. She took care of him. She did everything he ever asked of her. The only thing she hadn’t done was save Morgan’s life, and that would have been beyond her ability.

Her purpose had been to be a good wife. She’d known that. She’d accepted it, even liked it. But she had not been a good mother. And when she failed her purpose, she began to fade.

She went slowly at first. Ruby Barker was a proper person, and so when she became less and less vibrant, very few people noticed. There was nothing wrong with her, so nobody thought she would go away.

Only her husband watched as she shut herself inside the house, then inside her room, drawing the curtains, laying on the bed. Only Sebastian Barker saw her when she lay for hours in the dark, staring at the ceiling, saying nothing, seeing nothing.

Finally, in the end, she just left. She left her body laying on the bed in the darkness, her life flickering out like a dying fire. The house was dark for days afterwards.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was deep red, the color of dark brick.


	2. A Lantern on a Street-Corner

Beiran hurried home in the evening. There was fog across the streets, curling around the lamp-posts like fluttering silk. He had to get home and phone his family. His aunt had died, and they needed to set up a funeral.

As he walked down the sidewalk, he saw ahead of him a figure standing in the fog. They were shrouded in some kind of cloak, and as he looked, they turned to face him. They were holding a lantern in one hand, low to the ground. Inside the glass flickered an orange flame.

“Hello?” Beiran called, to them.

The figure did not answer him. Instead it just raised its lantern high. Beiran realized that the lamps in the fog around him were not lit. He wondered if they ever had been.

“Who are you?” he called, to the figure.

It did not say anything. It only raised its other hand to the lantern in its hand, and very slowly turned the knob. The flame grew weaker until it finally blinked out. Beiran took a step back. He realized he couldn’t see anything now except the fog.

For a moment he feared that the figure might attack him. But as he blinked his eyes into the darkness, he saw nothing approaching him. He shook his head, and walked forwards, through the mist, until he left the street corner behind, and found his way to his home.

* * *

His name was Tommy Sullivan, and he lived on his own. He didn’t _need_ romance or a partner in his life, he thought, because he had enough adventures as it was by himself. Out and about, in the wilderness, or roaming the city streets of wherever he chose to travel. He was always well-equipped, prepared for any situation. 

So it was that he came to be camping deep in the forest in Ireland when at night a thick fog rolled in over his camping-place. He had a hammock that he’d set up between two trees, and a little canopy strung over it to keep the rain off. He had a lantern hung up, an electric light, one that he could use to read by.

It was late at night, in the fog, when he was startled by his lantern flickering. The electric light inside was new, and very bright, and shouldn’t have been flickering or going out. But as he looked up at it, squinting into the brightness, he saw it flicker again.

Suddenly Tommy felt very exposed. He realized he was hanging above the ground in a fabric sling, and anything could just walk up to him. Anything at all. His little canopy wouldn’t keep out anything but the rain.

Tommy Sullivan closed the book he was reading and set it down on his own lap. He stayed quiet even though he didn’t know why he wanted to.

Through the night came a low sound, like a cat purring. Tommy was confused at first, but as he lay there, hanging in the air, he heard the sound grow louder. It grew until he was certain it couldn’t be a cat, because no cat could be that loud. He tried to think of animals that would growl, and realized if it were an animal he could shine his light at it and it would go away.

He reached up and grabbed hold of the lantern in one hand, pulling it off the hook it was hanging from. “Go away,” he shouted, at the animal. “Go away.”

There came no answer from the creature outside. Tommy waved the lantern back and forth. “Go away,” he repeated.

Minutes passed before he felt like the creature was gone. He hung the lantern back up.

Then he felt it. A brush against the bottom of the hammock, right against his back, soft like a caress. He grabbed for the lantern, and when he shifted, he didn’t feel himself bump against anything. “Go away!” he shouted, and now he felt fear rising in his throat.

There was no answer but the purring. It was less of a purr now, he realized, and more of a growl. Like the sound a cheetah makes before it sinks its teeth into your skull. He’d never heard a cheetah, but he’d heard stories about them. He was afraid.

He waved the lantern back and forth. He didn’t know what animal was out there, but he didn’t think it was a big cat. There weren’t any in Ireland, not that he knew of. “Shoo!” he shouted, out to the darkness, and waved the lantern back and forth, this time with desperation. “Go! Shoo! Get out of here!”

Again he felt it, the gentle brush against his body, but this time it went silkily along his side. It felt like the touch of a friendly housecat, rubbing up against him, but it was much, much too large for that. Tommy knew he was about three feet off the ground. How could something that large be out there?

“Go away,” he said, quietly.

At that moment, he saw the lantern in his hands flicker, going dimmer and brighter again. He went still - perhaps if he shook it the batteries would come loose, and so the light would be stable if he were still? But no, it flickered again in his hands as he lay there, swinging ever so slightly back and forth in his hammock.

“Please don’t go,” he said to the light, and as if it heard him, and hated him, it winked out. For a moment he lay there in the darkness, utterly still, barely daring to breathe.

Then he heard the growling again, and felt the touch of the creature outside, and he knew it was too late.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was vibrant pink, the color of raw flesh.


	3. Lightning Bug

The good people of Search and Rescue hadn’t found anything. It had actually been a complete accident that they’d realized Tommy was missing; the only reason they’d tried to contact him was to let him know about the funeral, after he hadn’t answered the message they’d sent him in the post, like all the other family members had. He’d apparently left the country weeks earlier, and hadn’t come back. He hadn’t really given a record of his plans to anyone, and no one knew where he was. Where he’d chosen to lark off to. The only hint they had was that he’d mentioned fancying a possible visit to Ireland. That was all the information they had, and all they were likely to get.

Beiran wasn’t as distraught as he had thought he’d be. It wasn’t like he’d known his uncle well; the man had been something of a distant figure, always swanning about on his own adventures and never thinking about the rest of the family at all. Still, it worried him.

He didn’t have much time to think about his distant uncle. His job was asking more of him lately, and he couldn’t afford to spend all his time sitting about waiting for word on a man he’d only met three or so times.

However, while trying to find any record in his father’s estate of who his uncle even was, he did uncover a tape from a video-camera, a very old one. When he played it on the television, all it showed was a dark screen with little dots of light blinking in and out. When he looked at the tape-reel, there was nothing written on it save the words “Lightning Bugs.”

* * *

Isaac Douglas was American. He had moved to America twenty years prior to the day, and was a proud American citizen, in the grand state of Virginia. From there, he’d quickly become a successful businessman, selling of all things houses and land. He, and his wife, and his daughters - they were held in quite high regard in their region, the area surrounding the great American Capital. Isaac Douglas was a shining star in his area of business, well-respected and well-beloved. He moved in and out of society's spot-lights, appearing every now and again in a flurry of fame and excitement.

When Isaac made his last deal, he was delighted with it. He sold a 260-acre spread of woodland and orchard, notable for its removed location and for the charming, aged stone chapel on its grounds, though Isaac did not remember that chapel being marked on any map. The impressive nature of the grounds were reflected in their price. It was the best deal Isaac had ever made.

He drove home from a company party on his own. His headlights shone over the road. They bounced when his car ran over cracks in the pavement, or bumps, or twigs, or hills. Isaac Douglas was only very slightly inebriated, certainly not enough to impair his driving, or so he thought. But anyone can make a mistake.

No one but him would ever know what had happened, as he was the only one that saw it. A blot of shadow in the road before him as he crested a rise, hunkered down like a wolf. But he could not make out the details. It was too blurry and indistinct, not due to his vision or a failure of his car's headlights, but because of the darkness that surrounded it, resisting the glaring headlight beams. Isaac tried to brake, tried to swerve.

That light was never meant to live for more than a moment. The headlights of Isaac Douglas' car blew out, shattering their glass, when the front end of his vehicle was warped out of shape, crushing the frame and anything inside it into a tangled mess.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was pale gold, the color of cornsilk.


	4. Fourth of July

Beiran didn't understand foreign holidays. There were all sorts of strange ones - some holidays with big parades, some holidays with giant puppet animals dancing through the streets, some holidays that an almost respectable amount of decoration. He didn't understand the obsession some people had with fireworks. They could be pretty, yes, but there were ways to make light-shows that didn't require a horrible amount of noise, weren't there? Most likely there were. He disliked fireworks.

Unfortunately, his father's brother had been American, and so if they visited the rest of the family, sometimes they'd have to go all the way there. It was a long trip by boat, and Americans were simply  _ obsessed _ with fireworks. This particular trip found him pulling into the harbour in Virginia in July, standing beside the rest of his family. It was strange for his whole family to be on-board someone else's ship; his brother was a boat-captain, and the others didn't travel much.

As the ship steamed in they were unfortunately subjected to a barrage of bright lights and colors from above. "Terrible," Beiran commented, with a shake of his head. It was simply awful. Truly awful.

He wondered why this happened. He knew it did every summer, and it was something to do with a war, he remembered, though his thoughts were disrupted by the constant flashes of light and thunder-cracks of the fireworks. He saw them reflected on the black water. With each burst of light overhead, the moments of shadow in between seemed deeper, darker, and it was only once the fear had crawled into his throat that Beiran realized he was holding his breath between the fireworks. He was letting it out, letting himself gasp for air while the colors shone overhead, and going still when they faxed and plunged the world below into murk once again.

He shook his head to clear it. He didn't even like fireworks. Why bother finding some sort of strange comfort in them now?

Americans and their damn fireworks.

* * *

Diana Douglas was the only one at home that day. It was raining, so while her sister had gone to the studio to work, she'd been stuck inside. Her mother was not present - she was dealing with her husband's estate - and so that left Diana alone in the manor, wandering the halls at her leisure.

She almost went out into the courtyard, but even under the trees and awnings the rain still dampened her dress too much, so she stayed indoors.

The day was so overcast that Diana lost sense of the passage of time. She didn't realize evening was approaching until, attempting to read one of her books, she realized that the light from her window was too dim to read by. At first, she tried to hold the book up closer to the cool glass, but it was evident that night was truly falling, and she stood from the window seat and went to turn on the electric lights.

They did not turn on. Diana was confused by this, and went from her bedroom into the hallway, which was quite dark. There, too, the new electric lights failed, and she felt discomforted by their absence. Her father had ordered them put into the manor during its construction, which he'd overseen just two years prior. And already, they were failing?

Diana moved down the hallway to the stairwell. The house was filled with shadow, impenetrable overlapping curtains of it. Diana peered into the entry hall and understood that the lights in all the house were not working.  _ It must be because of the rain, _ she thought.  _ It has been raining far too much as of late. _

She walked down the stairs. The only sounds she heard were the hiss and patter of rain on the outer walls and window-panes of the house. Ordinarily, she found such sounds peaceful. Now, though, she wished she could hear another voice speak, or even just hear the static hum that the lights made when they were turned on. But no, there was only silence and the sound of rain.

It was too dark to see. She was almost dizzy trying to peer through the shadows as she moved into the kitchen, hoping to find perhaps a servant, or a fire burning in the brick oven. Neither were present, and she passed a hand over her eyes, shaking her head gently.

Diana found one of the oil-lamps, glass and metal base filled with clear liquid, and put it down on the kitchen table, and went in search of matches. There were some in one of the cabinets. She withdrew the rattling cardboard box and brought it back over to the table where she had set the lamp.

She just wanted a light. She didn’t like not being able to see. What if she tripped over something in the dark? What if some sort of creature got in? She only wanted a light.

When Diana Douglas struck a match, she did not realize until it was too late what the strange smell about her was. It was a thick scent, not unlike the smell of the oil in the lamp, the smell of the exhaust from a car. Diana watched the match burn in her hand, utterly still. She dared not even blow the flame out, lest it strike the invisible gas and destroy her.

In her fingers, the flame burned halfway down the wood, then failed. Its light dimmed, and then it fizzled out in a wisp of smoke. The darkness closed in around her.

Diana had one moment to feel relief before the world ignited, though there was no light.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was deep blue, the color of a twilight sky.


	5. A Reading-Lamp for Your Bedside Table

Despite the fact that the sound had been heard nearly a mile away, no-one - nearby or far away - saw any sort of light from the house. Beiran heard his father speaking quietly over the telephone when he thought no one was listening. His father seemed to believe that there was some kind of connection between the death of his brother and the death of his niece, but as they were American, it was hard to learn anything about them at all.

Beiran let his father handle it. He wasn’t sure how he could have helped anyway.

He found that he had to bring his work home with him, occasionally, so that it would be completed by the deadline required of him. For this purpose, he purchased an electric lamp, and placed it on the desk in his study. At night, it provided a steady glow for him to see by, enough that he could continue to mark and alter the pages he’d brought home long after the sun had gone down. It did not provide much in the way of warmth, as a hearth-fire would have, but it was far less dangerous than one. Beiran found that he developed a habit of picking it up and taking it into other rooms to plug in and use for whatever tasks he wanted to accomplish.

When he first brought it into his bedroom, it was because he wished to read before bed, and knew that the lamp would be bright enough if he set it on his bedside table. But it soon became a comfort to him to see it there, to reach over and be able to turn out the light.

Beiran had always been unable to sleep with too much light. But now, as time went on, he discovered something curious: he felt uneasy when he turned the reading-lamp off. Every time he turned the little plastic dial at the base of the bulb, and watched the light blink out and the incandescence of the wires inside it slowly fade to black, his chest was clutched by a sense of anxiety, or perhaps even fear. He didn’t understand why, though he thought perhaps he was making his waking cycle unnatural by using the lamp too much, but when he attempted to leave the lamp in the study one evening, he found that he could not rest until he’d fetched it back to his bedroom.

One night, he simply did not turn the lamp off at all, and turned over to face away from it to sleep. He thought it would keep him awake, but quite the contrary - it seemed to calm him, lull the thoughts in his nervous mind. After that, he could not sleep in the total darkness; he had to be able to see the yellowy shine of the lamp through his closed eyelids. Only then was he comfortable enough to sleep.

* * *

Following the death of his wife, Sebastian Barker attempted to uphold the standards by which Ruby had kept the household. Unfortunately, he was not as competent in his duties as she had been, and while he still managed to hold to a proper work schedule, the house itself swiftly fell into clutter and disrepair. Sebastian solved this problem by having a maid come and clean for him (at least at first), but that didn’t change the fact that everything Ruby had done for him, he now had to do alone.

He did not know what to do. He went to work and went home and went to work and went home and went to church on Sundays, and that was it. For many months, he followed the pattern he had made for himself. He wasn’t sure what else he even  _ could _ do.

The man tried his very best to continue to interact with everyone around him, but it was no secret that he became withdrawn and unsociable. Those neighbors that saw him often noted that while there was no change to the precision of his work schedule, he spent fewer days away from his home, and more time hiding inside it, with the curtains drawn and the shutters fastened tight.

The only reason they knew something had changed within his household was that his neighbors, who ordinarily exchanged a curt ‘good morning’ with him when he walked to his car to drive to the city, noted one day that he was not present at the usual time. Additionally, they found that his car was still in the drive, and after a full day, they concluded that something must be awry with him.

It was those strangers who knocked on Sebastian Barker’s door and received no answer. After several more fruitless attempts, they finally phoned for the police, who had a locksmith come and remove the door handle so they could enter.

The inside of Sebastian Barker’s house was dark. He had covered all his windows, blocking out even the tiniest scraps of daylight. Many of the rooms in his house appeared to be unused, and he had draped dark sheets over them, though where he had gotten them, the neighbors and police were uncertain.

They did find Sebastian eventually, of course. He was in his bedroom, the same place his wife had died. He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Three deep stab wounds had been gouged into his chest, near his heart. There was no weapon that the police could find, nor was there any sign of the intruder who had done this.

Sebastian Barker’s face was surprised and fearful. He had been afraid of something when he had died, though of course, at the time, it was unlikely he had been able to see it. Not only because of the darkness, but because when they found him, they saw that his eyes had been blinded, and were now almost a solid, milky white.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was dark teal, the color of a still, deep pond.


	6. Full Moon

Beiran had bad dreams now. He wasn’t sure when they had started. He did not remember what they were when he awoke. But he knew one thing: that he was afraid.

He moved his bedroom. He wanted the south-facing window of his house to look onto his bed. That way, the moonlight could shine through it at night, when it was clear enough. The moon’s light was a comfort to him.

Occasionally, he woke in the night, caught between two dreams. During these times he sat in bed and looked to his lamp or to the moon.

The full moon was the best. It was always there if he woke on a full moon night, always pouring its cool glow across his sheets. In these moments he always listened to the silence of his house, sitting in the pools of light, listening for… he wasn’t certain what. But he knew that he would know it if he heard it.

He hated clouds. He hated how they hid the moon, swamped the world below in shadow. When he woke, and found the moon obscured, he shivered, and could not sleep for hours afterwards.

* * *

Virginia was forested land, but its lowland was deep and swampy, and Clara Douglas’ house and property encompassed both areas. After the accident, she spent less time indoors, staying outside where there was less danger of a repeat incident. She took to exploring the grounds, letting the house staff handle everything, letting Iris do what she thought best for her own finances. It wasn’t as if anyone else was going to.

Her husband, Isaac, had purchased for them a grand patch of land with much woodland and natural area to look at and walk amongst, as Clara had always been fond of the wilderness. Now, it was what she took her sole comfort in.

Clara’s wanderings took her further and further afield, away from the house for longer and more erratic periods of time. She did not particularly know what her remaining daughter was doing with her time, and couldn’t bring herself to care overmuch, as long as she was alright. And she seemed to be alright.

So Clara roamed the swamps and forests, day and night. It was almost no surprise to her one night when she strayed from the path for the thousandth time only to find herself up to her knees in stagnant water, smelling oddly brackish and salty, black under the moonlit sky. She turned, trying to see from which direction she had come, but there was only the marshland around her, stretching through the trees. The glitter of the moon on the still water and the reflection of the stars above made the earth mirror the sky. Clara turned in place. She was lost.

She understood this. So forward she went, deeper into the swamp, and when she stumbled she did not try to catch herself. Her hands and arms were coated in thick, black mud by the time she waded into a black pool up to her chest, and when she felt the ground shift under her boots she did not struggle, only tipped her face up towards the sky and closed her eyes. Her face was pale as the waters closed over it and poured into her mouth and nose, blotting her out like clouds covering the moon.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was soft white, like fresh snow shortly before morning.


	7. Limited Exposure Time

Photographs were so fast nowadays. Beiran only had to force himself to smile for a second or so while the bulb flashed bright, blinding him. He and his family were always quite neat and clean for photographs. Now, though, the preparation for them took far more time than the actual photograph took. It seemed almost insulting.

The photographs were important. They went in various family photo collections, or were meant to be framed and hung on the walls of the family members’ houses. There was an air of uncertainty and almost dread around them now. No one wished to say it, but Beiran knew that the reason they wanted to be so thoroughly documented was that they were unsure of who would be gone next.

It was a quiet pall that hung over them now. As of yet, Beiran’s close family - his father, his mother, his siblings - had been untouched by the devastation, but after Clara had vanished only to be found drowned in the swamp on her property, Beiran’s father’s theory regarding the coincidental nature of their deaths seemed more plausible.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit. But he stayed quiet. What else was he to do? What else were any of them to do?

* * *

The flashbulb was something Iris was intimately familiar with. She’d seen that brilliant light go off in her face a thousand times, putting her on posters and magazines, in newspapers.

It never changed. The light was always the same, the fame was always the same. Iris didn’t care about any of it. She had long since passed the point of caring about nearly anything in her life; it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Not when she could disappear from the world at any moment, any day. Who cared what she prepared for? She likely wasn’t going to live long enough to reap the benefits of anything she did.

Iris Douglas had always loved art, but following the death of her mother, the second-to-last nail in the proverbial coffin that was her family and its sordid fate, she took up acting. It suited her, because - as she realized - acting was all about what you were willing to do when asked. And she was willing to do anything. Any role, any persona. It did not matter to her. She did not particularly care one way or the other, as long as she got paid. And after she got paid, well… then she could have some fun.

That was the only thing that really mattered at this point. Having some fun. She didn’t bother preparing for the future. She knew, somehow, that she wasn’t going to have one. Perhaps it was superstition, or maybe it was premonition. It didn’t matter.

It was hard to be a rising star in Virginia, so Iris left. She abandoned the home of her family - that nasty, rotting, accursed place - and went west, until she hit the ocean. Then she stayed, and became anyone that she was asked to be.

That earned her a place amongst the influential, if not the rich and powerful. That was fine by her. That was good enough, she figured; that was good enough. Interviews, film roles, photographs. All of it was simply… good enough. She didn’t know what she wanted. She didn’t particularly  _ want _ anything.

“What do you plan to do after the movie is finished?” one of the interviewers asked her, at one point.

“You know,” Iris replied, staring off into the distance, “I don’t really care. I’m just waiting.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know.”

It was in the darkness of the streets near her home that she found out. She was out, walking, when a vehicle pulled up beside her. It wasn’t a car she recognized, but it was a face she knew vaguely. From a party, somewhere?

“Miss Iris,” the man inside said, with a charming smile. “What has you out so late?”

“I’m going home,” Iris said to him, and she meant it.

“That’s a shame, Miss Iris. Can I give you a lift?”

“I’d rather die,” she drawled, tugging her coat around her shoulders. “Go away.”

The man looked disappointed. “That’s a shame,” he said, and lifted his other hand, the one that had been hidden behind the car door. Iris recognized the black metal clutched in his fingers and the easy way he held it. It leached the light and color from his hands, seemed almost to drip shadows from the barrel. “But if you really mean it.”

Iris stared blankly at him. _The final nail._ “Go on,” she said. “Do it. Murder me.”

The muzzle flashed, like a red-carpet photograph bulb, familiar as her own face.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was dark green, like the shiny skin of an olive.


	8. How to Navigate by Starlight

During the winter, the sky was clearer than it was in any other season. Even through the city smog, Beiran could still see the stars, hard and steady, unwavering.

He had, by the miracle of his own persuasive talents, convinced his superiors to allow him to conduct more of his work at home. That was desirable for him; he’d found that he enjoyed sleeping during the morning and evening hours more than he enjoyed sleeping at night. He didn’t like the idea that somehow, the darkness was watching him. Knowing about him, while he knew nothing of it. He didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t see while he was asleep. Not that it was any different during the daytime, but at least during the day his room was flooded with light, light enough to drive away any terror that might lurk in the shadows.

Somewhere in his mind, he understood that he was being irrational. But that part was drowned out by the fear he felt when he saw shadows lurking in the corners of his rooms - and the relief that washed over him when he saw them melt away. There was nothing he could say or do that would explain these habits, not really, not to his superiors at his workplace. But as long as they allowed him to take his work with him home, and complete it at strange hours, only going out to the building at noon - for the day-time in winter was short, and the night was long, and he preferred not to be out around dawn or dusk, when it was not quite light enough for him to be comfortable - then, well, he was content. Happy, even.

Was that what they called the state of mind that was absent of fear?

* * *

There were all sorts of new navigational tools that one could use, but Nathan Douglas had learned to sail by the stars, and that is what he preferred to do. There was something about reading the speckled map of the heavens, rotating around that singular point of light that shone the way north, and just knowing where to turn the tiller. He knew his knowledge of the stars could carry him across the open sea and safely home, or away, to whatever port he chose. As long as he had his tools and his eyes to see the stars, he would always be able to find his way home.

Nathan had a navigator on board his ship, of course - the _Seal Spring_ had quite a positive reputation, and he only hired the best for his crew - but Nathan still liked to use the stars himself, watch them with peaceful eyes as they turned through the sky. They were his friends, his companions through many a year.

The _Seal Spring_ was sailing northwards off the coast of Norway. Nathan tugged his scarf tighter around his throat; the air this far north was quite cold during the warmer times of year, but in this late-winter early-spring week, it was properly frigid, and he could see blots of sea ice close to the shore. Occasionally, some would bump against the ship’s hull, but the sturdy wood did not give way.

It was in this manner, as he stood at the rail of his ship, gazing up at the stars, that he saw one of them, very distinctly, blink out.

That gave him pause. Pardon? He knew the names of most of the stars, and this one - Errai, of Cepheus - was one that he was quite familiar with. It was near to Polaris, after all.

Nathan searched the sky, but saw, with absolute clarity, that the star was gone. He looked around the deck of his ship to see if there was anyone about who would have noticed it, then back up. The star was still missing. Nathan passed a hand over his eyes - perhaps he was simply tired, and seeing things. He looked up again. Errai was not there.

Tentatively, he stepped away from the rail, then went in search of any of his crew. He encountered one of them, a Mr. Edwin Sharpe, and called to him.

“Mr. Sharpe, I have a question for you,” he said, knowing that this particular seaman knew the sky fairly well.

“Yessir?” Edwin said, coming over. “What is it?”

“Look at the constellation Cepheus, Mr. Sharpe, and tell me what you see.”

There was a moment while Edwin turned his face upwards. In the darkness, it was almost impossible to discern his expression, especially with his chin blocked by his heavy coat and his hair matted down underneath a woolen hat. Still, Nathan was able to make out the calm on his face that came with a quiet night of sailing.

He held his breath, watching. Edwin searched the sky. For a moment, Nathan held hope that Edwin would simply point the star out to him and go on with his work. But Nathan’s heart fell as he saw his crewman hesitate, and frown, brows knitting together.

“I’m… not sure, sir,” he said, “and this sounds somewhat ridiculous, but I… I believe one of the stars is missing. I can’t quite locate it.”

Nathan felt, mostly, confusion. He knew stars could go out, but he never thought he’d see it happen. “I watched it vanish,” he said, confirming Edwin’s opinion. “It simply disappeared, moments ago. I wasn’t certain of my eyes myself.”

“We’ll have to report that as soon as possible to the Royal Astronomical Society,” Edwin said, looking to Nathan with wide eyes. “If they haven’t already noticed it, of course. Which I’m sure they will have by the time we return. But…!”

“It is quite a novel experience, to see that go,” Nathan said, turning his gaze back to the sky. “And I must -”

He stopped.

“Mr. Sharpe,” he said, his voice monotone to shut down a fear he felt rising in his throat, “where is Vega?”

“Sir?”

“The star. Vega.”

Edwin looked up to the sky and went silent. “I don’t know, sir,” he said, after a moment, and his voice betrayed that he, too, felt that fear.

Nathan glanced around. There was no fog, nor any clouds to speak of, despite the season; the moon was new, and was not blocking out any of the stars with its light.

“I must say,” he said, “I do not like this.”

“Nor I, sir,” Edwin agreed, and there was a slight tremble to his voice.

Nathan steadied his own. “Still,” he said, and to his own ears he sounded remarkably calm. “I’m certain there is a reasonable explanation for this, and it is one we will uncover soon enough. Particularly miniscule wisps of cloud, perhaps.”

Looking up, both he and Edwin saw another star blink out. He didn’t know the name of that one; it was so dim he could barely see it, but he knew what the sky was supposed to look like. He knew where those tiny points of light were meant to be. He knew when one of them was suspiciously absent.

“Oh,” Edwin said, and that told Nathan that he’d seen it too.

“Mr. Sharpe, would you do me a favor and rouse Mr. Barrett for me?” Nathan asked, without taking his eyes off the sky. Laurence Barrett was the navigator Nathan had hired, and a damn good one, too. “I’d like to ask him for his opinion on this matter.”

“Uh - yes, s - right away, sir,” Edwin said, and hurried off, shoulders hunched.

By the time Laurence Barrett arrived at the rail, twelve more stars had gone out. The difference wasn’t yet noticeable if one gave a swift, cursory glance towards the sky, but any detailed examination would reveal the disparity.

“Mr. Barrett,” Nathan said, when his navigator joined him sleepily at the ship’s rail, “did Mr. Sharpe tell you why I require your presence?”

“No, he did not,” Laurence said, sounding rather annoyed. “Just said I had to see something. What is it?”

“Do me a favor, Mr. Barrett, and take a moment to look at the stars.”

Laurence gave him an irritated glance, then turned his face up. “Look at the stars, the bloody stars,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “What do you see, Laurence, when you look at the damn _stars,_ what do you want to see other than the stars that are always -”

He fell silent, and Nathan watched him carefully.

“Wait a minute,” Laurence said. “What… hold on just a second.”

“Some of them are missing,” Nathan confirmed, and Laurence looked to him, face mostly covered with an expression of complete bafflement. “I don’t know why. I was hoping you might be able to explain the situation.”

“Well, I can’t,” Laurence said. “I don’t have any idea why some of the stars might’ve gone missing.”

Abruptly, above them, another one - one of the brighter ones, but Nathan didn’t have the time to dredge the name from his memory - blinked out, and then another, immediately afterwards. All three men were shocked into silence.

None of them could deny it. And none of them could deny what they saw as the stars began to vanish before them, as if they’d been switched out like light-bulbs. Faster and faster they disappeared, until entire swathes of them were vanishing in mere moments.

Nathan dared to look away from the sky for a moment and saw, with a jolt of fear, that he could not see the shore. In fact, he could not see anything more than a few meters away from the hull of the _Seal Spring_ herself; his vision went fuzzy and dark, as if the ship were surrounded by a thick fog. But the air was clear. He knew it was, for he could see the stars that remained above him, and he could see his hands and the faces of his crew clearly. It was not fog that dampened his vision, but an unnatural darkness.

Swiftly it became evident that the disappearance of the stars was not going to stop. Nathan found that he almost couldn’t look away from the spectacle; as the stars went out, the few that remained seemed to burn ever brighter, struggling against the black, before they too were snuffed. Nathan simply stood there, hands clutching the brass rail of the ship, and watched. He watched as the sky he knew so well became unrecognizable, as he began to be able to count the few stars that were left. Twenty. Ten. Three. One.

He found his eyes fixed on Polaris. It was the only star left, the only point of light in the black world around him. He swallowed, his heartbeat pounding in his head, praying that this last one would not go out. That this was some type of test of his faith, that if he followed the North Star, he would sail out from this hell he was trapped in and be free, and the sky would come back, and he would continue north along the Norweigan coast and safely arrive at port in some days and send word to the Royal Astronomical Society of the strange occurrence and then go around the region and never experience it again.

He prayed. Beside him, he could feel Laurence and Edwin also watching the last star. It blazed, like he had never seen a star shine, so bright and brilliant it almost seemed like a small sun.

And then, as he feared, it went out. It simply stopped existing. As it did, the darkness around him became something else. Previously it had been only shadows and gloom, disguising the sea around the ship; now, it crushed him like a living thing. It was massively heavy, so much so that Nathan collapsed onto the ship’s rail, clutching at it to keep himself upright. Beside him, he heard one or both of his crew members fall to the ground, though he couldn’t see them - there was only darkness. _Have I gone blind?_

He couldn’t tell. He didn’t know. He couldn’t see anything.

The next thing he felt was the vicious crunch as the _Seal Spring_ ’s hull collided with something, and accompanying it came a shuddering, scraping sound and the scream of bending wood. He felt the ship pitch violently, but he could not see a thing.

If they’d hit a stone, or some coral, then it would have made sense for the ship to stop moving. But it kept going, forwards, and he heard the awful, shivering shriek of the timbers of the ship’s hull rending, twisting. Nathan didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t see anything. “Away from the edge!” he called, to his crew. “Wake the others! We have to -”

His words were cut off as another impact shook the ship. He could not sense his crew near him. He did not know where they had gone. He could barely feel the ship around him, and he lost his grip on the rail and stumbled backwards.

The only thing he felt after that was empty air, and then the cold of the sea as he was thrown into it, the ship having twisted too far and hurled him overboard. But something was wrong about the water; it didn’t feel abrasive as it ordinarily did, though it was colder than he could’ve imagined. It felt soft, silky, like oil. It was almost a comfort, save for the fact that he knew it was not his sea. He wished it had been his sea.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was pale pink, the color of a hollyhock blossom.


	9. A Midnight Storm

News of Iris Douglas’ death had finally reached across the vast ocean. She was the last of Beiran’s American relatives to live in that wide country, and the last to die. That was it - all of Bieran’s cousins were gone. Morgan first, long long ago, and then their parents Ruby and Sebastian, and then his uncle Tommy, his mother’s brother, and now Iris and Diana and their parents, Beiran’s aunt and uncle Clara and Isaac…

His father, quietly, whispered that he thought the family might be cursed. His mother loudly told him off, said he was being unreasonable. Privately, of course, she chose to express her own opinions; she was afraid, as none of her children nor she or her husband had yet been touched by the shadow that seemed to be encroaching upon their family.

For now, they were safe. Beiran knew his father’s stormy moods well enough to know that the more frequent of them now were spurred by that quiet dread, the nervousness of the ever-present  _ what-if-we-are-next. _ They did not know. They simply did not know. There was no way to know.

Beiran just understood, somehow, that he needed to keep himself safe. He reallocated some of his funds to purchasing additional firewood and firestarters; ideally, he would never have to be out of the light. His hours at work had been reduced, so he had more free time to spend ensuring that his home was properly lit, but it did mean that his budget was slightly more limited. He still had enough for his fires, and of course, those were the most  _ important _ thing to have in his house, but if he ever got low on firewood… well, then they would have a problem.

He did ring his father. Just to let him know about his own precautions. Their conversation was short. Beiran’s father sounded irritated, but Beiran knew that tone - his father was afraid. Of something nearby. What that thing was he didn’t know, but he hoped he would not have to find out. He didn’t want his father to die. He didn’t want anyone else to die.

He told his father to keep the lights on. To keep the fires stoked high, to sleep during the day and stay awake at night to keep the shadows away. His father, in turn, told him to pull himself together and act sane, and that he shouldn’t worry about this matter any longer.

The wording could have bothered Beiran. But it didn’t. He hung up. Overhead, he heard the rumble of a rare thunderstorm gathering.

* * *

Xavier Douglas was old enough to die. He knew this. Even his children were at an age where their deaths, while tragic, wouldn’t be ‘lives stolen too young.’

He was determined to undo the curse that afflicted his family. He knew there was something awry. No-one faced this kind of horror without there being an underlying cause, and Xavier had identified this one, though he did not know from where it originated.

There was something killing his family.

It had already killed his wife’s brother, and his own brother and sister, and their families. The only ones left were he, his wife, and his three children. He knew this, and he was not about to allow this rash of murders to continue.

For they were murders - of that, he was absolutely certain. There were more to these deaths than anyone could properly understand, not without delving into the esoteric, but Xavier had done just that, and he was determined to use the knowledge he’d gleaned - at great cost to himself - to put an end to the wretched scheme.

For all his searching, he did not know who was behind this. He could not uncover any long-running grudge against his family, nor did he know of any people his line had wronged throughout the years. As far as he could gather, there was absolutely no reason for this to be happening. Yet happening it was.

It didn’t matter. Regardless of who was behind the matter, he was going to stop it. Tonight.

The thunderstorm overhead, as it grew, did little to soothe his nerves. It seemed somehow appropriate that the weather be foul, growing darker than it should have at this early hour of the afternoon. That mattered not; Xavier was planning to wait until midnight regardless, when the world was black and cold, absent of all light save that of the moon and stars. He smiled grimly as he traced his fingertips over the designs scrawled in thick black lines on the papers spread out on his desk. With the storm, there would not even be those last glimmers of hope. And it was in the darkness where no hope of light lived that he would seek out his enemy, and slaughter it, once and for all.

He had no name for what he faced. There was one, most likely, but he did not know it. And he could not see it, and so would not be  _ able _ to name it. Xavier didn’t care. As long as he could hurt the beast, then he would be satisfied.

The hours pressed onwards. He knew his wife had gone to sleep, as he’d told her to, and that his daughter - still living in his household - was safely in her bedroom as well. His distant son, Beiran, had called him earlier on the telephone, spouting crazed rants about fires and lamps. Xavier was well aware of the darkness, but his son wouldn’t have to worry about anything like that after tonight.

The grandfather clock in the main hallway struck eleven-thirty, and Xavier stood from his desk. He carefully gathered up all the papers, rolling them into a long piece of parchment, and left his study, turning off the oil-lamp as he went. The fire, he left. It would go out on its own, or someone would need it tomorrow. It was far enough away from his chosen site that it wouldn’t matter.

Across the house, there was a secondary study, one that looked over the garden and the pond beyond it. Xavier lit no lights entering this room, moving through the darkness with slow, deliberate purpose. He’d earlier ordered the shelves moved out of the way, and now had a large, circular area of clear floor on which to work. He’d also acquired several large, thick pieces of white chalk, with which to draw his symbols.

It didn’t take long, but it was still past midnight by the time he’d finished drawing out the diagrams he’d researched. A large circle, first, to contain everything else; then patterns of dots, seven and eleven, in alternating whorls. In the center, inside a scrawling circle of characters, was a symbol that resembled a closed eye.

Outside, the storm roared, shaking the house with its thunder, and Xavier was sure he could hear the thud of hailstones against the roof. There was no light save the occasional flash of lightning outside, brilliant flares that threw the room into stark, woodcut-print relief, just black and white. Xavier stood by the window and waited.

It did not take long. His first indication of the approach was a change in the surface of the pond. It seemed to undulate, and then flowed outwards, up the hill and into the garden. The dark water spilled over the lip of the stonework and poured through the rows, washing towards the house. Xavier left the window and moved to the center of the symbol he’d drawn. There was a plain steel dagger driven into the floorboards at the lowest point of the closed eye, and he rested one hand on the hilt and waited.

The growl and hiss started up only moments later. It was audible even through the heavy rain. Xavier listened to where it was coming from and pulled the knife free. “Come on, then,” he said, aloud. “Let’s have it out.”

He could not see where the darkness moved. He only saw where it was in the brief moments between each lightning strike, when they illuminated some parts of the room and could not reach the other segments, cloaked as they were in a shadow thicker than the ink on his drawings.

There was no time for metaphors now, not for him. He was busy. He had to focus, pay attention.

He was  _ not _ paying attention when the darkness flowed forwards, hissing, and surrounded him, parting like water and running up to the edges of the glyph all around him. The shadow grew like a wall, over top of him, and suddenly it was just him, in the pitch darkness, trapped in a circle of chalk.

The circle would keep him safe. He knew that. It had to - he’d done his research, paid for the knowledge. And true to his assumption, the darkness did not move past it, as far as he could tell. It just surrounded him in totality.

Carefully, Xavier reached out with the knife and prodded at the darkness. It was less of a stab and more of a gentle poke, but he still felt the darkness recoil from the blade, and that gave him courage.

“Begone with you, Devil’s work,” he muttered, feeling braver by the second, though the fear still clouded his throat. “Devil’s servant. In the name of the Lord, I command you to return to the place from which you came, and bother me no more.”

Nothing happened. Xavier paused, then spoke his words again. There was no result, and he tried to poke at the darkness.

Thunder shook the house, though of course, he could no longer see the lightning. “Foul creature,” he muttered, and sat down fully. Perhaps he would wait until daylight.

It was in that moment, as he thought about something else, as he forgot to be afraid of the monster for just a second, that he understood somehow that it knew that. As he sat there, he felt the darkness flow smoothly over the edges of the chalk and onto his body.

It was thick and damp and cold. He immediately slashed out with his knife, but it was stricken from his hand before he could complete a single swipe. “No!” he cried out. “No!”

But he understood. The circle had not protected him. He had never been safe.

The creature came in the darkness, with its coat of soot and its eyes not seen, and between one lightning bolt and the next, it tore Xavier Douglas’ soul from his body.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was deep indigo, the color of a fine blue jewel.


	10. The Most Beautiful Sunset

_ I should write memoirs, _ Beiran thought, calmly, as another bolt of lightning shot down outside. It would be daytime in a few hours, and so, he had to stay awake until then, when he could rest in the light of day, without fear.  _ Perhaps I will write about my family. Perhaps I will write about all the beautiful things I’ve seen in my life. I will certainly have plenty of time to write, now. _ He had been fired, of course, from his job; they had wanted him to work during the day, like “an ordinary human,” and had not accepted his response when they asked him what exactly he needed his special schedule for. He’d picked up the letter earlier at evening, when he’d bothered to check his post. Apparently, they did not believe in his story of his family’s curse, and thought he was making things up, or perhaps that he was delusional. He wasn’t sure. Either way, he now got to stay safe inside his home, out of the dark. Out of the dark. Out of the dark was the important part. Out of the dark. He’d repeated the phrase to himself over and over again as he’d hurried into his house, back to the sunset. He didn’t like sunsets. At one point, Beiran remembered, he’d thought they were beautiful. But now they just unnerved him. They were no longer expressions of beauty spread like paint along the skyline; they were bright warning signs, being choked by the night, that tried to tell him to get inside, get to safety.

He was inside. He was safe.

Beiran hummed happily to himself as he made a pot of tea over the fire, though he didn’t know what he was humming. He didn’t quite recognize the song. Tonight was a fine night. His father hadn’t taken his words seriously, but that was alright. He was fairly certain his family was fine.

* * *

Lacey Douglas, Sullivan before her husband had married her, woke in the night when she heard his screams. She’d known what he was going to attempt, and she’d been afraid of it, but she’d hoped against hope that it would work. From the sound of his voice, it had not.

She was too frightened to leave her room. She had no desire to go out into the hallways, but… no. Xavier had said not to. Xavier had told her to stay put, and wait until morning to go looking for him. He said he’d have taken care of the  _ thing _ that was after their family, though he hadn’t told her what that thing was.

No, she would stay where she was.

She had no electric lights in her room; she’d read they were bad for sleeping. Certainly her son Beiran’s behaviour had assured her of that. But now she wished she had a lamp, or some sort of light that could keep the dark away. All she had instead was one burnt-out candle, sitting in its brass candleholder on her bedside table.

It seemed like ages before she finally heard movement in the hallway. For a brief moment, she thought that it might be Xavier, returning from whatever it was he had been doing, but when she listened she realized the sounds were all wrong.

It was not the heavy, slightly uneven thud of Xavier’s boots, nor was it the hesitant, fearful tap-tap-tap of Lacey’s delicate daughter. No, the sound was a barely audible padding; Lacey couldn’t even hear the footfalls, just a disconcerting clicking sound, like the claws of a dog, on the wooden floor. She knew it was getting closer when it went quiet, meaning it had either stopped or moved onto the rug that ran down the center of the hallway.

The door was shut, but somehow, Lacey didn’t think that would protect her. As quietly as she could, eyes wide in the black of the room, she reached out and picked up the candleholder on her bedside table, clutching it close in her chest, in her fingers that were beginning to wrinkle and swell at the joints, something she tried to hide with satin gloves whenever she could.

All movement outside stopped. Lacey strained her ears, desperately trying to figure out where the thing outside was. She couldn’t hear breathing, or any sort of clicking or shifting or rustling.

A moment passed, and then Lacey was immediately struck and pushed into her bed by some type of strange force. It like a hand, or some other type of appendage, pressing into her chest; she shrieked in fear and lashed out with the candlestick holder, and with it she caught something in the darkness with a sharp cracking sound. There started up then a hissing noise, like a teakettle about to whistle, or perhaps the hiss of a gas-stove. The weight pressing into her chest intensified. But still, Lacey Douglas could not see what was attacking her with such power.

She attempted to hit it with the candlestick holder again, and once more connected with something solid and bony with another ringing thud. This time, though, whatever was holding her seemed to take offense to the gesture, and as she drew her arm back for a third swipe at the seemingly invisible force - though everything was invisible, it being too dark to properly see - she felt it ripped from her hand, and indeed, her hand ripped from her wrist as well. The cry she had given just before was nothing to the cry she released now, in pain and fear, and her blood spattered across the headboard of her bed in a red arc. Had their been light, it would have been beautiful. But there was no light, and there was no hope for Lacey Douglas.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was brilliant red, the color of freshly spilled blood.


	11. A Candle to Read By

The knock at the door startled Beiran. He’d been reading his own works, his words, that he’d scrawled out on paper, trying to figure out what to say. He wasn’t certain what to talk about, but he’d started talking about his childhood, and now he was trying to pick out exactly what he needed to write next.

Above and around, the storm had not yet abated. The rain was still pouring down outside the windows - the blinds of which were at the moment only half-drawn. Beiran couldn’t decide whether he wanted them open or not. If they were shut, on one hand, it meant that he didn’t get to see the lightning. But if they were open, he was subject to anything outside looking in, or even getting in. The windows were sturdy, tough, but he didn’t think for one moment that they couldn’t be broken.

The sound of the knock was barely audible through the sound of the thunder and the rain. But Beiran heard it, and he carefully lifted a candle in a candle-holder and moved to the door. Before he looked out, he took a deep breath, preparing himself for anything he might see.

When he did peer out, he saw nothing at first and was afraid, but swiftly realized it was because of the rain and the darkness. There was a figure standing on the other side of the door. He was afraid to open it - a stranger, in the night-time, in a storm? - but they turned their head, and he saw it was a teenaged boy, perhaps a little younger, in a black rain-coat.

Cautiously, he unlocked the door, undid the dead-bolt, and opened it. “Hello?” he asked, peering through the crack. “Who are you?”

“Are you Mr. Beiran Douglas, sir?” the boy shouted, to be heard over the driving rain. Now that Beiran looked outside, he could see hailstones laying in the puddles. A blast of cold air swept in through the doorway, tinged with rain-drops and the smell of wet stone, and the wind blew out Beiran’s candle, which he’d set on the table next to the door. The wisp of smoke that went up from the wick was dissipated instantly in the wind.

“I am,” he replied.

The boy fumbled under his rain cape, in a bag he was carrying. “An urgent message for you, sir,” he said, and held out a tube. “It was sent all the way from Norway, sir, for you.”

Puzzled, Beiran carefully extended one hand and took the tube. It was not heavy, though it seemed like it should have been.

“That’s all for you, sir,” the boy said, and gave Beiran a small salute. “Have a good night!”

With that, he turned and sprinted off through the rain. He was gone in moments.

That was quite the encounter. Beiran closed the door and picked up the candlestick holder, even though the candle was no longer lit, carrying it back to the fire. The tube was sealed with wax, and he broke it with one of his longer fingernails - he’d bitten some of them down - before pulling the cap off.

Inside were three things: a fragment of wood, a scrap of fabric, and a letter. Beiran dumped them onto his lap and set the tube aside, and picked up the fabric first. It was blue wool; he felt like he recognized it somehow. Was that a pattern woven into it? He couldn’t tell. It was stained dark on the edges, where it had been ripped.

The wood he did not recognize, though he did see a few fragments of yellow paint on it. He wasn’t certain what this was supposed to mean. Was this a message? A threat?

Ah, of course, the letter. It could explain this collection to him. He picked it up and opened it. It was very short, and very quickly made its point.

“To Mr. Beiran Douglas,

Enclosed you will find a fragment of the hull of the  _ Seal Spring, _ and a tatter of cloth from your brother Nathan Douglas’ coat. I regret to inform you that your brother is dead. His ship was destroyed off the coast of Sula Island, in Norway, and while some pieces of the ship have been recovered, none of the bodies save those of two crew members washed up on shore. I apologize that you had to find out in this manner. I’m sure you will wish to arrange his funeral; perhaps you ought to bring the matter up with a family friend. Someone else will likely be better than you for taking care of his affairs.

Regards.”

It was not signed.

Beiran stared at it, unable to think. Nathan was dead? His brother was dead? So the curse had touched his family after all. The curse, if it was a curse, had reached in and taken his brother’s life from him, tearing it apart in the far cold ocean to the north.

Outside, another flash of lightning lit the world for just a moment before returning it to that terrifying darkness. Beiran clutched the unlit candle to his chest, staring out, and realized he did not feel good about his family after all.

In fact, he felt very, very afraid.

* * *

Joanna Douglas knew something was wrong. She was aware of it the second she’d heard, very distantly, the howl of pain and terror that she knew tore from her father’s throat. From that moment onwards she’d been preparing. She’d gotten up out of bed and lit several candles, and loaded the hand-pistol she’d acquired for her own uses that she kept in her drawer at all times.

She had stolen and read over her father’s research, all of it - even the parts he had dismissed as false.

She knew something was coming for her. And she knew she had to see it to kill it. But it was something that you could not see, and could not kill, ordinarily.

On the back of her door, she’d drawn - in the only liquid she had available to draw with - the symbol of a closed eye. The monster in her father’s books was a vicious creature, but it obeyed rules, and one of those rules was that of blindness.

Joanna heard it coming. She knew it would move through the darkness, so she had filled her room with light, like Beiran had told their father to. She stood there, and she waited. The door was locked. That wouldn’t do much to stop it, of course, but it was the principle of the thing at that point.

Because her room was so well-lit, of course, it did not simply appear; it knocked on the door first. But then the knock swiftly became an insistent scratching, and then a scraping, and then a tearing as whatever was on the other side began to shred the wood. Joanna actually could see the hints of some kind of claw cutting through the boards before it melted into darkness.

“Ready,” she said, and closed her eyes.

When she heard the door give, she raised the gun and fired it six times. She was rewarded with a screaming sound, a tone that quickly pitched up out of her hearing range but still made her skull vibrate with its intensity. She opened her eyes.

Something cowered in her doorway. She couldn’t see much, just the shape of it, but that was enough. Its form was massive, hunched over, deep black like soot. She saw a tangle of limbs, and then two empty eye sockets.

_ No. I’ve made a mistake. _

She stumbled backwards. She should’ve taken the moment to reload the gun, if possible. No - no, she’d have to enact her emergency plan. This thing was stronger than she’d feared. Well, she could still save her own life.

Joanna reached out and grabbed one of the lit candles, feeling hot wax run over her fingers. As the horror in her doorway lifted its head, she raised the candle to her face and pressed the flame to her left eye.

It hurt, but she held it there, and slowly pressed it into her eye, destroying it as thoroughly as she could. It took all her willpower to do it, and as the world spun around her, she found herself on her knees, still holding the candle - which had gone out, spattered with blood and fluid she couldn’t identify - in one hand. Her left eye was a blot of bright pain, and she could not see out of it, but her right eye still functioned as it had before.

She raised her head and saw the horror’s face, inches from hers.

_ Too slow, _ she thought, even as she reached for another candle. It went out in her hand, and she raised one hand to try and drive her fingers into her remaining eye, but of course, it was far too late for her.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was brown, the color of rich soil.


	12. An Old Bulb

The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. The dark was coming for him. 

* * *

Beiran was crying.

The fire had gone out, and the matches he tried to light would not burn for more than a moment before fizzling out. His candles were gone, and it was still hours until sunrise. The rain had not stopped, but the lightning had, so there were not even those bright flashes appearing in through his windows. He did not know the phase of the moon; it was too far hidden behind the clouds and rain. There were no stars. There was no light. The dark was coming for him. The only thing he had was the lamp, which he clutched in his arms as he sat on the floor, back against the wall. He was in the corner of his room, where he could see everything, and the pool of light around him protected him.

He had to be safe from the dark here. He had to be safe.

The interior of his house, aside from his puddle, was drenched in shadow. He was too afraid to go out now. The dark was coming for him.

That did not matter to the dark. He knew it was inside when he heard the window shatter. He could see the faintest hint of glittering glass go spiraling across the room. One shard bounced into his bedroom, and it was after this that he heard the bulb of his lamp buzz.

“No,” he whispered, looking into it. “No, please.”

It dimmed ever so slightly, then brightened back to its full light. Beiran squeezed the lamp against his chest. He’d taken the lampshade off, so it was just him and the dusty bulb, on its metal base. “Please don’t go out,” he begged it. “Please don’t go out.”

Out in the main room, he heard a low hissing sound, a rumble, like a big cat. He could hear something moving, just the slight clicks of what could be claws and the occasional rustle as it brushed past something. The room out there was black, completely dark. His bulb’s light didn’t reach as far as it should have.

Again, next to his face, it dimmed. “Please, don’t!” Beiran said again, louder this time, feeling hysteria in his throat. “Don’t go out. I don’t want to die.”

There was silence. Not even the thing in the main room made a noise; it was waiting on the bulb’s decision as well.

Beiran watched with desperate eyes as the bulb dimmed ever so slightly more, and finally began to fade, going darker and darker with every agonizing second. It almost went all the way out, but recovered, and then faded, and recovered, and finally, he watched with despair as it struggled and finally died, the light simply dying away. The filament of the bulb was still glowing for a few more moments, and Beiran fixed his eyes on the last vestiges of that precious light.

“No!” he cried, when they finally went away. “I trusted in you!”

There was no answer, save the silky sounds of something moving closer to him.

“I don’t deserve to die!” Beiran sobbed, grabbing ahold of the still-warm bulb with one hand. “I shouldn’t have to die!”

The dark did not listen to him. The dark had come for him.

* * *

The sun rose, and it was black.


End file.
